


Retribution

by ZixxType16



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: F/M, Skyrim - Freeform, oblivion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZixxType16/pseuds/ZixxType16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarthas' dream is to become as great a hero as one of legend, namely the Champion of Cyrodiil. Yet when an unfortunate visit home shatters his world, justice and revenge become what drive him. But is that the true strength? Or just one path leading to another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fighting Chance

The morning is young. No birds are singing, they are fleeing from the clearing behind Pinewoods Cottage. The clashing and clanging is ringing loud and far into the forest. The two young combatants pit each other out until exhaustion. Neither of them would admit it though.

The Breton charged at his female adversary, steel sword raised for an over hand chop.  The young girl lifted her Akavirii blade horizontally above her head, parrying the blade and creating sparks in the chill morning air. She twisted her sword with her wrist and moved her arm so the two blades were down pointing. The boy charged a firebolt in his left hand and had a perfect aim for her stomach. She had her iron shield raised just in time. They jumped back from each other and had their swords pointed at each other, they circled cautiously. 

“We said no magic Tarthas. You’ll never become a hero like your esteemed Champion of Cyrodiil if you fight this lame.”

“When I am such a hero it won’t matter what I bring into battle so get used to it, Keri-Anne.”

“I wasn’t talking about magic, dimwit, I was talking about your fighting prowess. Now are you ready to re-engage or are we going to circle each other until noon?”

The two warriors flung at each other again, blades close and clashing. Keri-Anne winked and giggled. Stepped back as agile as a khajiit, making Tarthas lose his balance and fall to his knee.

He looked up to see a blade pointed between his eyes. He followed the blade up her arm and into her eyes. She stood there loftily, quite bemused. “I win. Stendarr have mercy on you, you’ll be no good in a real fight. And you want to join the Companions? Tell you what, you can be my shield brother.”

“That’s no fair. Come on, mum and dad have probably woken up from our sword fighting. You fought well, Kyne’s swiftness was in your swings.”

“Stop that, suck up. I’m starving. Let’s get ourselves some salmon on bread.” She sheathed her Akavirii sword and lead Tarthas inside pinewoods cottage.

Keri-Anne’s father was one of the blades and this is where she had gotten her Akavirii sword, strangely enough it wasn’t curved like most of their blades, it was straight and slightly shorter, only by two inches, making it good for closer combat, sword and spell or sword and shield.

Keri and Tarthas had been friends since they were little children. Keri was an orphan from a Blades father who died in a battle against a dragon and a mother who had been killed in Ulfric Stormcloak’s campaign for freedom from the empire.

Vyctorya Gardner and Marcurio were happy to adopt little Keri-Anne who was only five years old at the time. Tarthas, their son was merely three. They took lessons in swordsmanship from a stormcloak officer who had retired from the war in Falkreath City at the age of 12. Their parents taught them magic. 

Tarthas smelled the warm kitchen cooking smells heartily. It was a small cottage but very cosy and very welcoming. It was a place he could always call home. His mother was in the kitchen cooking up breakfast. His father was reading the letters that the morning courier had brought.

Tarthas and Keri had seen the courier but took him little heed in between their blows. The poor Nord was quite unnerved seeing them hacking at each other faster than he could recite a letter.

 

“What are you reading, father?” Tarthas asked him.

“Nothing much that concerns you. I have business you know. This little alchemy business that your mother runs brings in big money.” Marcurio muttered. It was true; even though they lived in a tiny little cottage in the middle of the woods they had enough money to live in the Blue Palace with all the Jarls and nobles. That is all because of Vyctorya’s knack for potion crafting and high demand for her high quality potions, ointments, and aromas.

“Good morning, my young warriors!” Vyctorya smiled. It was heart warming, filled with kindness and care, like a mother’s smile should be, thought Tarthas. “How did your practicing go? You woke us up once again.” She teased.

“Tarthas still can’t defeat me in sword to sword, he always has to regress to spellcraft. He won’t ever make it into the Companions.” Keri waffled while munching on a sweetroll.

Tarthas puffed up again, falling for the bait “I will make it into the companions! You’ll see: I will be greater than you! Greater than the Dragonborn!”

“You?” Keri teetered into a fit of laughter “Greater than the dragonborn? You’re nothing but a Breton! He’s dragonborn, dragon blood flows through his veins!” She started daydreaming “His voice is like the mountains frozen tears, mightier than a sabrecat and as powerful as a dragons roar. His breath can obliterate dragons! You can’t even beat a girl with a steel sword.”

Tarthas raised his fist and was about to punch Keri in the face before Vyctorya stopped his arm with telekinesis and brought it back to his side.

“Hush now both of you, this bickering brings you no where, go and have your bath, Keri. And Tarthas,”

“Yes mum?” Tarthas sulked.

“Happy Birthday! Dad and me have some presents for you. Come see.”

Tarthas cheered in rejoice and went to his parents’ bedroom wondering where the gifts were.

Sure enough in the magical chest lay a unique sword and a unique bow. The bow was wooden and carved in elven style; the eagles on the recurve of the bow were coated in iron. The sword looked haggard and yet brand new. As if it was made to look old. It was long, straight and the point curved, not enough to be blunt though. Above the cross guard was a tag of metal with cuneiform dragon letters on it.

His dad came into the room and remarked on the two gifts given to him.

“That’s a bow and sword forged by Eorlund Gray-Mane, the bow may look wooden and elven but it shoots farther and more powerfully than one. That sword is on of the finest he’s made he says, it may look like a hand me down but he finished forging it yesterday. He called it the Loner’s Sword because it was alone in its make. He made them on our request and as an invitation to join the companions. They will train you, the Harbinger Skjor is happy to train you personally. He expects you in Whiterun tomorrow.”

Tarthas was overjoyed, he strapped the sword to his belt and left Pinewoods Cottage with many hugs and kisses from his mum. He was about to leave when he heard Keri-Anne shouting behind him.

“Oi! You son of a skeever! I’m just washing my hair and you decide to go off on an adventure to join the Companions. I am not letting a foster brother of mine join the Companions before I do! It’s unacceptable we are joining together!”

Everyone laughed and the two left for Whiterun at noon. With high hopes on their shoulders and Kyne’s winds pushing them forth. 


	2. The Companions

An arrow shot over Tarthas' head. A yelp erupted from his throat. It was early evening and the crickets hiding in the reeds near the stream adjacent to Whiterun's tall walls were chirping. But up ahead there was fighting to be heard. Not man versus man. No, there were huge roars, humane roars in a way, roars of agony. There were shouts as well, shouts to coordinate the bunch of warriors.

Tarthas beckoned for his sister in all but blood to follow his lead. As they came closer to what the sign said was Pelagia farm the picture of carnage and destruction started to form.

A giant, probably the height of three men and the breadth of two, was destroying the farmlands around Pelagia farm. There were about six warriors surrounding the giant. In the middle of the fray stood a man in steel wolfish armour, black hair and black war paint around the eyes. He ordered attacks across the rest of the warriors. Some wearing the same armour as the supposed leader others wearing animal hides. A fierce woman had fired the arrow that had nearly hit the siblings. She had fiery red hair and green streaks of paint across her sharp facial features. They matched her rugged yet skimpy armour.

Tarthas and Keri-Anne each summoned a wolfish familiar and Tarthas grabbed his new bow. The ghost-like wolves charged at the giant. Keri had her sword and shield raised and with a yell was running towards the giant hacking at its tree stump of a leg. The giant swept his club across the ground trying to net as many warriors in the hit as he could. But with the leader's precise orders no one got hit. Tarthas shot arrow after arrow at the giant. Some missing. But most hit the giant in his chest like a pin cushion.  The wolves both evaporated when the giant hit them with his left fist. There was no time to re-conjure them. 

Tarthas heard a confident voice whisper in his ear. "Aim for its temple, no time to loose or your girl will be hit." He had a glimpse of the fierce woman's red locks from the corner of his eye. 

The giant was readying to make another sweep with his massive club right at Keri. Tarthas focused and raised his bow. Pulled the steel arrow back. Breathed out and let loose of his grip to see the arrow zip right into the giants skull.  The giant roared and the leader ordered everyone to get back. It fell like an old pine tree. It made the earth rumble and dust rise, making it hard to see what had happened.

When the dust began to settle and the grasshoppers continued their chittering the carnage became clear. Three of the warriors had fallen, broken ribs sticking out and crushed skulls. A few were staggering on their feet; they needed a healer fast.  Among the wounded was Keri-Anne on her side. Tarthas rushed over to her. Her iron armour was heavily dented, probably having broken a rib or two, her shoulder was shattered and her arm broken. Her head was bleeding from the temple. She had gotten a heavy blow from the giant’s club. She was groaning in agony.

“You were too late kid. Should’ve shot faster.” The redhead said in a disappointed tone. She walked away tending with the rest of the warriors to their wounded.

“Wait!” Tarthas shouted. They all turned around “Go get me some luna moth wings and some juniper berries. Or garlic!”

“Kid, she’s lost, look at the breathing.” A dark elf in hide said.

Tarthas wouldn’t be swayed. “My mum is one of the best healers! And while you’re at it, you the nord girl in hide: get the priests of Kyne! You, dark elf, you can go catch luna moths! Has anyone got garlic!?”

An imperial in steel opened his knapsack and took out some garlic. Both the dark elf and the nord ran off in opposite directions. Tarthas knelt beside Keri’s broken form and concentrated on the basic healing spell, one that would close simple wounds, he concentrated very hard, amplifying its strength to an unbelievable amount, it was tiring and had very little effect.

“I need her armour removed!” The rugged leader came over and cut the leather straps holding the two parts together.

The dark elf was back with a cloth full of luna moths. Tarthas took out a mortal and pestle from his pack and ground the garlic and the wings together in the mortar. It soon became a sticky paste-green powder. He then took out an empty ale bottle, rinsed it with water from a stream nearby, then filled it and poured a bit of the powder in as well, swirling it to make sure that it was mixed properly. He rushed over, rested her on his knee and leaned her neck back so he could pour the solution down her throat. He let her drink half the bottle. Casting the basic healing spell again. There were very fast results. You could see the wounds closing, the bones slowly creaking back into place.

All the companions were watching with awe as all of the young girl’s bones were put back into place and the wounds were closed seamlessly. The priests of Kyne came over and started healing the other warriors. Tarthas didn’t realize; he didn’t loose focus once. 

Most of the warriors were helping their companions but the redhead and the rough leader stood and watched Tarthas. An hour passed and finally the boy released the spell. Tarthas blacked out right after.

*****

 

Tarthas woke up in a warm bed. Candles in horn chandeliers attached to corners in the room lighted the room.  The room was made of stone and supported by wooden beams and pillars that were carved in intricate ancient Nordic designs. There were no windows probably meaning he was underground. There were many beds spread across the rectangular room. The candles gave the wood and stone an orange glow. Tarthas saw that his armour and robes along with his pack and quiver were lying beside his bed.

He put on his chainmail and then the typical Nordic steel armour and then covered it with his mages robe, strapped in his boots and gloves and started looking around. The mage robes were typical college robes and because of the artistic, flexible and light design of steel armour of the nords made it possible to wear robes over them without making it too stuffy or impossible to move.

Mage robes weren’t just a simple fashion statement that mages wear. Yes, a typical mage wasn’t strong enough to wear armour, and that played a role on why robes, but the classical mage’s robes were enchanted to increase the users durability in magic, making them recover their magicka faster also having a larger pool to cast their spells. Some mage robes also helped the wearer excel in a certain school of magic, making it easier to cast spells of that school. 

Tarthas realized that his sword and bow were missing he panicked for a minute. Then remembering his arsenal of spells. He carefully wandered out of the abandoned room. When he saw the gruff leader sitting by a small round table chatting to an older man, short, gray hair. They both wore the same steel armour. The helmet looked like a wolf’s jaw at the bottom and the gauntlets also depicted a wolf’s maw. At the sternum bone once again a little wolf head it had thick pelt under the armour, most likely also from a wolf. Tarthas decided to call it wolf armour.

The older man called Tarthas over when he spotted him. Tarthas walked forwards cautiously, not sure what to make of it. The man made him feel at ease but the rough leader was unnerving.

“Let’s have a look at you, boy. Tarthas right?” the boy nodded “Strong posture, and he has proven he can handle himself in a fight, and when wounded. But how’s your sword arm? I know you are quite nifty with a bow. Or so I have heard from Aela, our best huntress.”

“Surely you can’t accept him?” the rough man said. Tarthas thought that he was confused who was the leader here. “He’s a Breton! Short, frail, mages! Not fighters! Sure he can use a bow. But he was using magic and he summoned wolves!”

“Wolves in combat isn’t so different to us, Vilkas, is it? And battle mages are great warriors. The latest Grand Champion in the Cyrodiilic arena was one, the Red Warden or something? Or so I’ve heard. Great matches those in the Arena, makes me wish Skyrim and Cyrodiil were still on friendly terms. Ever since Ulfric is High King, we have lost contact with the rest of the Empire and stand on the edge of war with the Empire; Ulfric is trying to sign a treaty with Hammerfell to wage war. This is going nowhere.” He sighed.

These people were the Companions, a faction of warriors that sired many heroes and had brought the Nords to the mainland of Tamriel and had banished the snow elves. Now they were the most respected mercenaries I Skyrim.

“Uhm, sir, about my sword arm, I need a lot of training still, I can’t even beat my adoptive sister.” His eyes widened and he looked around, “Keri-Anne!”

“Don’t worry, the girl is safe and resting in Kyne’s temple. You did a great job with that healing. The acolytes and priests summed up she didn’t need much more than serious rest. Vilkas, bring him up to the yard and test his mettle.”

“But where is my sword?”

“It is up in protection and care of Eorlund Gray-Mane. He’s out of the yard, up the hill at the Skyforge. Ever been to Whiterun kid?”

“Not really. I’ll find my way.” Tarthas walked off, out the door and up the steps to the mead hall that was known as Jorrvaskr. Jorrvaskr is the mead hall of the Companions where they rest, and feast while telling bold tales and drink mead. Feasting on the hunted meat or the latest beast killed. Now it wasn’t very full just a few of the Companions sitting around chatting in different groups.  Jorrvaskr is shaped like an upside down long ship shaped into a building.

In the yard there was the clanging of metal on metal as people sparred and the swishing and cracking of twigs and straw as dummies were being hit. Twangs of bows from archers. It looked all very military, except that each wore the armour that they deemed fit and it wasn’t all organized it was a bit more casual, if that is the right term. There were others drinking mead in a chair giving advice.

Tarthas walked round the building up the steps up to the Skyforge.

The Skyforge is a huge hot furnace with red coals keeping the place warm, shaded and sheltered by a statue of an eagle; it’s wings enveloping the area. Eorlund was sitting behind a whetstone sharpening a steel sword. He had long grey hair, and a beard, ironically like a mane. His bare chest and arms were strong, thick and toned and covered in sweat and coal dust.

Tarthas nervously cleared his throat. He started feeling sticky from the heat radiating from the Skyforge. “Legendary sir Gray-Mane. I would like my sword back. I need it for, erm, training.”

The blacksmith stood of and towered over Tarthas. Nords were naturally one of the tallest races in Tamriel, Bretons being one of the shorter races made them quite different in stature. “Ah, so you are the young Breton that I smithed the loner’s sword for, and the bow. Fine piece of work, one of my best. Though never my best, that broke years back through rotten luck.” He turned around and got from a workbench the sword and the bow, along with Keri-Anne’s sword.

“This sword, of your friend. It is unique in its kind. Akavirii in make, yet straight this is quite strange. Have you heard of the Akavir boy?”

“No sir.”

“Akavir is another continent on this world we call Nirn. It has many different races, just like Tamriel. One of them was a race of men who now seem to have disappeared. This race of men came to Tamriel looking for someone known as the Dragonborn according to the prophecy they had. They became known as the Blades, many joined their ranks and adopted their weaponry and smithing techniques.

“Their designs are oriental as most like to call it, sharp enough to cut through dragon bones, some claim, but strong and flexible. Artistry. These oriental blades are disappearing, and only the long sword curved ones remain known as Katana’s and some Dai-Katana’s ones you could wield with two hands. But this one is straight and shorter, but still got the same design principle.

“Utterly amazing. Let her look after it well. I’m also smithing her some steel armour in the mean time because I heard it was broken. I don’t wished to be paid, Companion’s don’t pay for my work, and I do it with pride. Now go off to your training, may your blade stay sharp and you strikes swift.”

Tarthas ran down the steps to see Vilkas waiting for him. He looked agitated. Then again, he always did. He turned around and walked to a clearing in the yard, Tarthas followed close behind.

“Now whelp. Hit me with a few swings of your blade. Don’t worry I can take a hit.” He raised his shield. Tarthas spread his legs and lifted his blade; he hit the shield from the right, then quickly twisted his wrist and hit the shield from the left. Tarthas jumped back gripped the sword with both hands and went down hard; making a clang that ran through the whole yard. But Tarthas didn’t stop there; he kept hitting the shield from different angles.

“Alright! Enough whelp. Lower your sword. I will be your tutor, so will Farengar, the court wizard. You have potential, but you’re like an untempered sword, you need rigorous hammering and sharpening to turn you into a real weapon. Welcome to the Companions kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small note on the potion Tarthas made: Luna Moth wings, Juniper Berries and Garlic can all be mixed together to create a fortify health regen potion.


	3. Swordsmanship & Spellcraft

Months passed and so did the seasons like a flower opening to the sunlight. Autumn fell, winter passed, and now it was spring in Skyrim. Jobs never ceased in Jorrvaskr, and in between jobs there was training, mornings of spell craft and afternoons in the art of the sword. Tarthas had lost a lot of what made him once look young and a child. Most of the youthful fat had disappeared from his face. He was toned and chiseled, by Vilkas, to the physique of one worthy to wield a blade.

The young lad was out in the terrace in Dragonsreach, the palace in Whiterun. This terrace had traps rigged to trap a dragon and it had done so twice. Once in the age when the dragons’ tyranny was great and the nords rebelled against Alduin and his kin. The second time was once again when Alduin, the world-eater had returned and the Dragonborn needed the aid of a hostile dragon to slay Alduin once and for all. It was a wide circular space looking out to the plains and mountains that lay behind Whiterun. Half of it was roofed and this is where dragons were trapped. Also on either side were various targets and training dummies for the guards and other great heroes to train. This is where Farengar always trained Tarthas in magic.

“Now you must see, Tarthas, a familiar isn’t merely the most basic form of Conjuration. It is an art and can be turned into a very advanced skill, as great as necromancy or mastering the realm of Oblivion. But if the first step is mastered properly then the rest is simple. However this first step-

“Is the hardest.” Tarthas rolled his eyes. Farengar had been preparing him and lecturing him about conjuration for the last month. Conjuration was probably his worst school after Illusion. Reanimating the dead or summoning daedra from the hellish realm of Oblivion wasn’t truly his thing. It felt wrong and very often the daedra had turned on him, forcing Farengar to send it back to Oblivion with a banishing spell. Very soon Farengar had taught Tarthas that spell, which he had mastered easily. Farengar was now trying a different approach to conjuration, the one of familiar and binding.

According to Farengar, summoning a familiar had two aspects. The first was how every conjurer learns his craft, summoning a wolf familiar. These beasts were the spirits of the said animal. Wolves being the essence of courage, loyalty and leadership were the easiest to summon. The second aspect was conjuring up what the shamans of Hammerfell called your own essence, your inner self, conjuring up what made you, you in the form of an animal.

This was a hard technique but once achieved can be stronger than a daedra and is infinitesimally more loyal and compliments the conjurer to the core. Combined with the technique of binding a conjured being into a weapon or armour, this familiar is by far better because it can turn at your will back and forth between those forms, a companion in battle and a vital tool in battle, that was the versatility that the shaman in the tribe deep in the Alik’r desert had. Very few know about this but Farengar had consulted with the librarian in the college of Winterhold to see how Tarthas could tackle Conjuration. This was all he could find, which was a feat in itself.

“I know you know the theory behind it fully. But now you need to meditate as you have been doing for the last week. You will conjure it, I am sure if it.”

The problem was Tarthas knew that he wasn’t sure. Conjuration was a vital skill as a mage and there was less and less hope that he would ever master it, this was the last hope and it was slim.

Tarthas sat down at the edge of the cliff like balcony and crossed his legs. He sat in front of a conjurer’s pentagram, candles were lit around it and daedric runes were painted along the lines of the pentagram. These pentagrams were the ideal condition to conjure and were always used for a new summoning.

Tarthas sat in front of the circle for a long time, controlling his breathing, eyes closed, trying to find himself within himself. He let every pore of magic flow to his finger tips and ball in his hands. It looked like two abysses in the palm of his hands, swirling around the black hole of a centre. He had a sucking sensation as what seemed like a part of his soul was being gently pulled away, like pulling off a piece of dough but more fluid and less tangible. A blue essence started flowing around and diving into the black holes. He let the spell forming in his hands go and a flash of light erupted in the pentagram.

In the pentagram stood a strange canine beast, it looked like a fox with wolf-like features. Through the ghost like colours and transparency that familiars had the back and tail had a different pattern and different tint of ghastly blue, darker and greyer.

“What is it? I’ve never seen it before.” Tarthas asked.

“It is you to be technical but I think you are referring to what beast it is. It is a beast found in the dryer areas of the savannah of Elsweyr, it is known as a jackal. They are opportunistic, solitary, a guide for souls passing to the afterlife. I wonder what that last fact may mean. This may teach you something about what the Gods have in store for you, although I have no idea what that may be. The Gods work in strange and subtle ways. Fate isn’t something to find out about. It will find you and move you; it isn’t possible to change it either. Your lesson is done for today, I need to get back to my own research.” Farengar walked off muttering under his breath.

The jackal yawned and walked over to Tarthas’ side and stretched and yawned again. Tarthas wasn’t sure what to make of him, or himself. It was too confusing for him. He looked up at the sky, the sun, Magnus, had passed the peak of its journey across the sky quite a bit. It was about three in the afternoon. He had been meditating for much longer than it had felt. He was late for his sword fighting training.

When Tarthas ran through the palace and rushed down the stone steps, bumping into a few guards, he got a lot of curses coming from behind. In the training yard there were very few people, only the lower ranked companions were out training. Among them was Keri-Anne hacking away at a dummy in the set of the blades armour that Eorlund had crafted for her, its close fitting design made her look very stunning

The armour of the blades was a strange combination of thinly and closely plated pieces of armour in the oriental design of the Akavir however but with the imperial influence of them being the bodyguards of the Septim dynasty. It had a blue sheen to it and was crafted with the same tempering technique as used for the Akavirii swords. Heating, folding and hammering then reheating and folding the metal and re hammering it. Making it highly strong while very thin. Eorlund was truly a legend in his skills of a blacksmith.

Keri turned around and saw Tarthas examining her. He blushed and Keri giggled.

“Nice chest – stab!” Tarthas raised his hands in shock” I meant chest stab. To the dummy. You know, when you er, yeah. I’m sorry.” He looked down at his boots, how could he look at his sister like that. Not that she was truly his sister, she was a Nord and he was a Breton. He blamed it on not having seen her and actualy communicating with her. She had become distant this was the excuse he had formulated for himself.

“Thank you, Tarthas, you flatter me. But seriously you’re nearly seventeen. Learn how to flirt with a girl, and try someone of your age. Preferably not me, brother.” She added the last bit with a slight bit of venom in her voice “You little _brother_ , favourite of both mum and dad _and_ the companions have been getting the good life. Being trained by the two best in their craft of Whiterun. And I? I get treated like another one of the Companions, hired muscle. I’m supposed to know how to hold a sword! Not that I don’t! I can still beat you in a fight, no matter how much training you’ve had.” She had her sword raised at him and looked furious yet had a glint in her eyes; a glint that showed that she was daring him.

“Fine, a duel, like old times.” Tarthas unsheathed his sword and smiled confidently, he wasn’t, it was just gusto. “This time all out, magic and sword, we will cast a blunting spell on the swords, cast a resist magic spell and ironflesh to minimize injuries. Any weapons allowed, all magic as well.”   
Flesh spells are very useful spells, they are a spell that when cast, form a thin layer of magic over your skin which is as strong as armour. So Ironflesh is like having a layer of iron over your skin.

“Bretons don’t need to buff themselves with resist magic. You already resist it naturally as well as an adept wizard casting it. Even odds.”

As custom they bowed to each other and stepped ten paces each, away from each other. The sun was still bright and was just behind the Skyforge, creating an eagle like shadow across the training field. So Tarthas realized there were no advantages from light. There were also none created within the sparring court because of its even terrain.

Keri-Anne summoned from her left hand while holding the shield a flame atronach and charged at Tarthas sword pointing towards Tarthas’ abdomen. A fool hardy approach if one was ever made. One easily done when angry. Tarthas stood his ground, banished the daedra and swatted her stab away with his sword tilted vertically. Making her sword fly to her right and creating a huge opening. He quickly moved in the pommel of his sword in to her left shoulder but it was blocked with Keri’s shield blocking the path. 

She returned the blow with her katana closing in on Tarthas’ side, gaining momentum from the previous side swat. Tarthas braced his arm for the blow, knowing there was little stopping it. Then the jackal jumped and formed a shield in the blink of an eye, forming just in time to block the blow that Keri-Anne had landed on him.  Once again Keri lay open for an attack. Tarthas lowered his sword and thrust it horizontally forward to stab between the plates that covered her slim waist.

Keri had moved aside only just on time and had earned herself a loose plate of armour and a cut on her waist. She jumped back and hissed, cupping the now bleeding wound. A sword wasn’t supposed to unhinge blade plate so easily nor go through ironflesh so well either. She looked again and saw the shield was missing and the sword had an aura enveloping its blade in the form of a wyrm with the jackal’s head.

The aura flowed away and formed the jackal again and it charged at Keri-Anne. She raised her shield so that the ghost jackal wouldn’t hurt her, forgetting about Tarthas.  He took the opportunity to come in close around her side. He grabbed her shoulder and smacked his pommel into her temple, knocking her unconscious. The glowing ironflesh withered away with the current of the wind as she fell to her knees. Tarthas caught her. He closed her wound with a healing spell then with an illusion spell, the only one he could do, he woke her up.

Keri-Anne opened her eyes softly to see Tarthas’ face and feel herself in his arms, resting in his lap. His strong arms embracing her frail back. He was smiling caringly, his green markings on cheekbones for once not very daunting, his hood was down and his messy black hair had a matted reflection from the sunlight that was peeking out from the Skyforge. She noticed how much Tarthas had matured in the past half a year. He wasn’t the little brother anymore. He could fend for himself; Keri felt something more for Tarthas in that moment but didn’t want to know what that feeling was.

Tarthas pushed aside a few strands of blonde hair that were in Keri’s face. Keri lifted her upper body and embraced him, kissing him as well. It was a short kiss, but one that shocked Tarthas. This was his sister! She looked at him in bliss but her blissful expression turned to one of confusion when she saw Tarthas in shock.

She ran away, leaving Tarthas alone with his thoughts:

Tarthas didn’t know what to think. Keri had been his sister since he had learned to walk and talk. She was tough as nails, as nords were, but had always cared for him, protecting him from the bullies. An older sister that was all she ever was. Yes, she was adopted so it is okay, but a sister she stayed in his mind. Could she be his lover?

 

Keri-Anne was sobbing in a sepperate room underneath Jorrvaskr in the living quarters. What had she done? She had kissed her brother that much was clear. But was he really her brother? No, and she didn’t want it to stay that way. She decided to become Tarthas’ lover. Tarthas had become a much more desirable young man. But would Tarthas accept it?

 

A courier arrived for Tarthas a while later. Tarthas was still kneeling on the ground thinking of what Keri had done. He looked up to see a scrawny nord in farmer’s tunic and a cloth skullcap.

“Are you sir Tarthas Gardner?” The kid asked.

“Yes. Do you have any letters?”

“Not really, no.” He muttered, “I have a verbal messages though, Vilkas had sent word that he is out on job with most other senior companions to slay a giant’s camp which has been terrorizing an Orc Stronghold. He said that you and your sister are off duty and may go home for a month.” He was quite confident and proud that he had remembered the full message.

“My sister” the word felt strange in his mouth now “is inside, could you go and recite it to her? I’ll pay you your usual fee for a verbal message.”

“Twenty five septims it is sir.” He said quite happily. But his eyes showed nerves were high. The lad was lying; it was lower. Tarthas gave him the twenty-five anyway. He would pack his stuff that evening and leave in the morning, hopefully with Keri-Anne.


	4. Coming Home

Dawn was well over when Tarthas left Whiterun’s huge gates. It wasn’t normal for him to leave the large city on his own. He would always have been with either a shield brother or sister sometimes even his adoptive sister. In fact, he was hoping that they would leave together but she was nowhere to be found. No one had a clue. The guards also had no idea because of a very typical mix up of the watch. He decided that the hopes he had raised were pointless and set off to home on his own.

The road to Falkreath City could take well over a day on foot. He would probably have to stop by an inn on the way because he left so late. While passing Pelagia farm Tarthas saw the corpse of the giant still lying there, crows picking out the guts. Thinking his mother would be pleased with the rare and expensive ingredient he walked up to the giant’s huge feet. Those feet came up to his waist. Tarthas took out a knife and cut off both big toes, oddly the other toes were worthless in alchemy. Only the big toe had any alchemical properties. 

Tarthas prayed to Arkay, the god of burial rites and funerals, hoping that even giants were accepted in the afterlife. They were humane after all. One of the crows looked at him with one black beady eye and it seemed to blink. He took it as a sign that Arkay had accepted his prayer, though his doubts were strong.

It was merely a mile to Riverwood, a small road, but one known for all kinds of hazards. On one side the start of the White River originating from Ilinalta Lake and ending in the sea of ghosts east of Windhelm. On the other side a view of one of Skyrim’s glorious mountain ranges and the edge of the forest that encompassed all of Falkreath Hold and over the southern border of Whiterun Hold. These forests ran thick with nature and wildlife but were also home to bandits and other beings of darker nature. These forests are where Tarthas grew up, it was home to him and it was always a nice feeling to smell the crushed pine smell of home.

“Halt! In the name of... Ulfric!” A group of four  dressed in the armour of stormcloaks was stopping his path, the one addressing him was an Orc and beside him stood a dark elven woman, “This route is being… patrolled, yes patrolled. You have to pay 200 septims to pass or we can’t let you through.

The Orc carried a heavy iron warhammer on his back, the others axes the armour didn’t seem to fit any of them properly. Tarthas grinned, subtly resting his hand on his pommel. The ghost jackal grumbled but had a sparkle in its eyes; Tarthas always forgot that he was by his side.

“Talos guide you heroes of this land. Tell me now, my fellows, if you are part of Ulfric’s revolution he must have changed his ways to let Orcs and other elves into his army, by the Nine, you don’t look like true sons of Skyrim at all. Why should I pay this charge? Robbery it is!” He smiled; the look on the Orc’s face was one of shock and anger. The Orc sputtered and cursed.

“Shit men! Our cover’s up! We’ll beat ya ter pulp yer Breton worm and take all those juicy septims from you!” The nord took the axe from his back only to find black smoke coming from pores of his body. The dark elf screamed and stepped back grabbing her axe. Tarthas laughed, this was his own invention, he had named the spell Brimstone, it wouldn’t harm at all until magic or fire touched the person which led to a huge explosion, a tiny spark from sword to sword could do the trick, only those deemed damned by the gods would be hurt.

Tarthas pulled out his sword and saw the jackal charge at the Orc biting at his leg. That was enough to set the explosion going, the dark elf was lay on the ground charred, the other two were untouched. Both Imperials, twins, Tarthas guessed, each had a steel short-sword.

They moved to either side of Tarthas, he decided to face the one on his right. The one on behind him charged him for on overhead chop, Tarthas lunged back, turned his blade in his hand facing behind him, stabbing the Imperial in the chest. He pulled out his sword with both hands, raising it above his head to parry the blow from the other imperial. Because of the diagonal slant of his parry it left the bandit open for cut from the side.

And with a twist of his wrist Tarthas’ sword went straight for the bandit’s waist only to be parried by his short-sword. Tarthas immediately charged a fireball spell in his left hand, feeling the magic combust and let go. The bandit went flying.  And Tarthas left the scene how it was, he was in no mood to see what riches the bandits had earned or to clear up the mess. Let passers-by know this route is dangerous.

*****

Soon Tarthas arrived in Riverwood and ordered himself a large mug of ale from Orgnar he also ordered himself an apple cabbage stew. He sat down at the bar and sighed, Riverwood was a quiet place.

It was a very isolated border town, few people passed through and few families lived here, a small community and one that had grown smaller when a dragon had attacked Riverwood. The Dragonborn was by pure luck also in town and had saved it, however a boy named Frodnar, Alvor the blacksmith and his wife were all killed, the boy actually being eaten. The now childless family of Hod and Gerdur adopted Dorthe and she became a fine lass. She had been Tarthas girlfriend when they were teens but that didn’t work out very well. Dorthe was now the town’s blacksmith and in the evenings sang at the Sleeping Giant inn, or whenever she didn’t need to be working at the forge. Her auburn hair and boyish grin made people wonder if that trauma ever really took hold of her, until they saw the dark rings under her eyes.

Tarthas finished his mead and stew and left the inn. Outside leaning against the fence was Keri-Anne. She didn’t look Tarthas in the eyes but asked if she could join him on his journey home. Tarthas shrugged and the continued walking together to Helgen.

Helgen had been rebuilt and restored, it actually was a lively town again, many people had lost their homes because of the war that took place fourteen years back and others had also lost it because of the dragons terrorizing the lands. Eighteen years had passed since the legendary dragon known as Alduin decimated it. The town was larger now and had various businesses inside its thick walls. It even had its own meadery, Greenthorn Meadery.

They travelled in silence though, neither spoke. By the time they arrived in Helgen, it was an hour before dinner so they rented a room at the Yawning Dragon Inn. Keri dismissed herself saying that Ashthread Tailor’s always had some of the finest clothes and they were about to close and she also wanted to get a bottle of Greenthorn Mead for mum and dad. Again they didn’t look eye to eye.

Tarthas sat by the fire. An old dark elf walked up to him, the age lines were cut deeper in his grey face, his white hair was long like a mane, one of his eyes was pearl white and a scar ran across it ending on his jaw bone with another scar on either side of the main one across his cheek. His working eye was a deep red. He looked strong but worn. His armour was as black as night and closely fitted, with fine runes carved in silver, it curved smoothly then cut again at angles, an artistic and fine design made by the dark elves themselves; ebony.

“You look glum, lad.” The dunmer said taking a sip from a tankard, “Going through a tough phase with your girl? You’re a fine warrior if I’ve ever seen one, shouldn’t be too hard to win her heart back would it? Or is something else going on?” The old dark elf looked at him calmly. Tarthas felt at ease, which was strange to feel around a dark elf.

“You see sir, she isn’t my girl. And I’m not sure if I want her to be, she’s my adoptive sister. But I feel more for her, which I shouldn’t and I think she does too.”

“Young love, always complicated, reminds me of my days in Ebonheart. If you feel more for her, go with it, and it’s hard to find someone who feels the same back. Take that from a wizened old dark elf that has seen half of Tamriel.

“The town really has turned out well since that carriage ride eighteen years back. Hard to make me angry that Alduin destroyed it, wouldn’t have been sitting here now having a chat with a young lad if it weren’t for him, Akatosh look after him.” The dark elf took another swig of his tankard. And Tarthas looked at the old man in awe, he realized who this man was.

“You’re the dragonborn!” He exclaimed. His pointed ears seemed to twitch and he smirked.

“Zaknolu Do’Ana, at your service. Now hush, it gets annoying when people start cheering and giving free rounds off the house. I just want a bit of peace and quiet. You just reminded me of a young lad I once knew when I was in Cyrodiil two hundred years back. We closed an Oblivion gate together. Curiosity killed the khajiit, but anyway, I have business with the Jarl of Falkreath see you round, lad. Oh and by the way, here’s a gift, I have no need of it anymore and I think soon, you will be glad to have it in your hands.” He handed Tarthas a silver ring with a wolf’s head sticking out as if it were a set diamond. The dark elf raised a black hood over his head and walked out of the inn. Tarthas finished his ale and went up to his room and started reading A Dance in Fire, it was a book lying around the room.

 

It was evening when Keri returned, the sun was setting and Tarthas still lay on the bed reading his book. She stealthily snuck into the room changed behind the blinds and stood before Tarthas in a white gossamer dress, strapped by silken corset and nothing more, it left her arms and shoulders bare, her blonde curls loosely covering one side of her face.

Tarthas stood up and looked Keri in the eyes. She blushed and shied away. She was breathing quickly.

“D... do you like it? It is the latest fashion for nightwear from Cyrodiil.”

Tarthas lifted her chin and kissed her soft lips. “It is beautiful, do you mind if I may see more of you?” Tarthas wasn’t sure if it was the ale that was getting to him as he kissed her neck and slowly untied the corset. When it was undone and the nightgown fell from her figure that Tarthas had seen before, and yet he was seeing it for the first time. She walked with a sultry gait to the bed and lay down inviting Tarthas to follow suit. Tarthas undressed agilely and lay over her, kissing up from the pelvis up her sleek stomach over her mounds and eventually kissing her lips again. The night was long and lady Mara was pleased to see another couple revelling in the gift She had bestowed on Nirn: love.

*****

The couple left the booming town of Helgen late that morning; Tarthas had his hand around her waist. They laughed and joked as the made their way on the road to Falkreath City. The sun shone through the pine trees and butterflies fluttered in and around the flowers. A few wolves crossed their path but they were thwarted with a few fire fireballs being shot from Tarthas’ finger.

They arrived at the side passage with the path to Pinewoods Cottage. Happily they carried on walking without a care in the world until the cottage came into view. Or, what was left of the cottage.

All that was left was a charred ruin. Keri stopped walking, Tarthas let go of her hand and slowly walked into what was once the doorway. The ash and wood crunched under his feet. There was nothing left, he moved to the stairs to the basement and even that was burned and all that was left was rubble. He slowly walked to his parents room and the little altar cupboard was burned and on it lay a statue of Boethiah, which shouldn’t have been there, it should have been Kyne. The bed was also rubble and in that rubble lay a charred female body. Their pet fox was nudging it. Once again the poor fox had seen it’s home destroyed. The charred remains of the person had a gleaming black, ebony dagger sticking out of it.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tarthas realized who the charred figure was. It was his mother. Tears came to his eyes. He fell to his knees with a heavy crunch. No scream escaped his lips; there was nothing in him. He felt empty. Like some daedra had ripped out his chest and lungs. Keri walked into the room and started sobbing on his shoulder. It wasn’t right. Tarthas’ mind was blank for a long time and slowly ventured into thoughts for Keri, that it wasn’t fair for her to lose two mothers. He couldn’t think for himself, all he felt was emptiness. Slowly noon came, and so did nightfall. Rain began to fall when darkness shrouded them.

When dawn came, the fox nudged Tarthas, who had fallen asleep from exhaustion. He looked at the fox, and saw a funnel strapped to its front paw. He unstrapped it and inside was a note.

 

_Dear Tarthas,_

_If you are reading this then I probably have left you. I am sorry it has come to this. The last few months your Father wasn’t himself. He had been arguing with me, threatening. Screaming that you, Tarthas, weren’t his son, but the son of a man name Karsa. He had many bad nights, bad dreams as well, he would whisper the names of daedric princes and whispering of a new dawn, Boethiah was muttered a lot in his sleep. He had threatened to kill me over the last few weeks and I fear he soon will. Remember Tarthas, don’t go after Marcurio. Revenge is the wrong route and Marcurio seems to be used as a puppet. I do not know for what game, but please revenge is the worst path you could take. Look after Keri-Anne for me, she will be shattered if she found out._

_I love you with all the love that lady Mara has given me,_

_Your Mother_


	5. Nights in Helgen

The Jarl of Falkreath was not impressed by Tarthas’ appeal for a murder investigation. On the contrary, he was accusing Tarthas of starting a ruse to cause panic in his hold that was so close to the border so that it was weakened and the Imperials could retake Skyrim.

Tarthas stood his ground heatedly and soon guards were shifting their weapons. An ashen skinned figure clad in ebony slipped out of a side room. Keri stayed quiet throughout most of the ordeal. She had been quiet since she had seen the ashes. She leaned against Tarthas' right shoulder in silence, like a small child holding on to her father. She barely flinched at the court's shouting, dazed.

“DREM!" the word rolled through the longhouse with an ancient and soothing undertone. Keri lost her daze and everyone lost their anger. The Dunmeri Dragonborn walked calmly with pride. “Honestly my Jarl, as your Thane let me share some of my wisdom. These children have lived in Falkreath hold for most of their lives, their mother was highly respected throughout all holds" a sly grin crossed his scarred face. "If I remember well she helped you with your foot fungus within three days while the healers couldn't solve it. And you would dismiss her children as mad men, plotting to overthrow your power? The boy is barely of age. I'll take the risk of taking these" sarcasm started to seep in his voice "provincial threats under my care."

"Go ahead Dragonborn, take them out of my city and keep an eye on them." the grey bearded jarl dismissed them with a wave of his hand and purple robed guards pushing the two with halberds out of the building.

 

The Dragonborn's home in Helgen was insignificant against the other grey stone houses in Helgen. It attached to the northwest wall and from one window had a breath taking view that spread from Bleak Falls Barrow to the north all the way to Ilinalta lake and the mountains in the reach to the west, below were the forests of Falkreath and midst them was Falkreath City. It lay in the part of town that was once the fortress of Helgen, a stronghold of the empire that was knocked down for firewood and stone to rebuild Helgen.

"Glistel, my love!" Zaknolu called into the kitchen, "Could you get the guest room ready, we have some friends of mine to take care of for the next couple of weeks. Make yourselves at home, the guest bedroom is upstairs, the door to the right." The Dragonborn went into the kitchen and embraced his Dunmeri wife, she had liquorice black hair and looked younger than the old Dragonborn, her eyes were a softer red than the typical fierce red of most dunmer, she wore a white blouse like dress covered by a moss green corset-vest, the sleeves of the dress draped loosely at the wrists.

Tarthas took the moment to explore the house and went downstairs, to the basement instead of the bedroom where Keri had slumped off to. From the left wall hung two crimson red banners which were embroidered with a golden sun that had a red teardrop in the centre. In between the two banners was a mannequin with a silver suit of armour he had never seen the likes of before, it was ornately decorated and was made out of very fine silver chain mail covered by plates of the same silver metal in the places the need most protection and least manoeuvrability. Beside the mannequin was a rosewood quiver filled with arrows and an ash longbow gilded with silver and emerald glass crystals.

On opposite wall were two similar banners although instead of a sun on them, they had a black hand, the symbol of the thusly named elite of the Assassin's guild known as the dark brotherhood: the black hand. In between those was a wrought iron statue of a delicate lady dressed in a cowl-ed dress with a draped neckline, crows adorned her out stretched arms and she had a cold and uninterested stare. It was a statue of the daedric prince Nocturnal, the Mistress of Shadows, god of the Thieves' Guild.

A hand rested on Tarthas' shoulder that made him jump. He turned around to see the Dragonborn in merely a pair of grey trousers, a huge scar cut across his chest. In his other hand he had a leather bundle that probably contained his armour. Zaknolu pointed to the left, "The order of the Virtuous Blood, a small faction of vampire slayers which I was a part of, mostly a group of old men that had a distaste for vampires and needed someone to do their dirty work, I also had a distaste for them so I became that man they needed and gained more slayers in the ranks. That's mithril, a metal that has gone out of production, light as linen but as strong as dragon scales, or so they say. That is how they used to make glass bows, two hundred years back, not with moonstone and decoratively smithed, but with real intent of use. Her name is Shardstring, beautiful bow; she could drain the life of a vampire in seconds. It took me three shots of that girl to slay the greatest champion of the arena Cyrodiil has ever seen: the grey prince. Tough old Orc that was."

Tarthas looked to the right and Zaknolu looked with him "I was one with the shadows back in the day and had a large thrill in everything to do with it, from an arrow that nobody knew where it came from, to lock picking and the greatest relics disappearing from their display cases under the highest watch. So when I was young I joined the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood. Never truly enjoyed the Assassin's life especially not with the patron being a vampire. So is the current listener I've heard, killed the Emperor and goes by the name of Karsa." The boy's eyes lit up at the mention of that name, "It's late son. We will have dinner soon and then I think rest will do you and your girl some good."

 

_Marcurio walked with a black dagger in hand to his sleeping wife and stabbed her repeatedly, she merely sighed as the dagger cut into her ribcage. The murderer left the room and exited the house, dropping flames as he walked; when he was outside he set the house on fire. The whole forest glowed from the flames and the flames from the door started swirling like a whirlpool, volcanic rock formed from the ground and arched into a gateway in to the form of the daedric letter O, in the gate was a paradise and Marcurio entered. Tarthas found he could move and ran after him. A deep malicious, laugh echoed, one of a woman. As Tarthas neared the gate a huge flaming dragon appeared from the flames and stopped his path, dawn was rising behind the house. Something urged Tarthas to mount the flaming dragon. The fire didn't hurt him, and the beast flew south, the laughing followed him words started forming. "Dawn is rising! And with it Fire shall come. This time you won't stop it." a roaring, monstrous, laugh mingled in with the woman's laughing._

Tarthas woke up with a start. Not wanting to fall asleep again he left the Dragonborn’s house and set off for a walk through Helgen, no one was out and nothing appealed. An hour went by and Tarthas thought of nothing. He looked up at the Aurora that spread across Skyrim's night sky, it was a dazzling green and blue this night, the moon was full and the stars were brighter than normal. How could such dreams plague his mind when the night was so peaceful? The inn door quietly opened and shut, a young woman in a blacksmith's apron stumbled out. It was Dorthe, Riverwoods Blacksmith. She spotted him and sat beside him.

"Never knew you to be the one to make midnight strolls," she grinned at Tarthas, "You slept like a hibernating bear when you came round. Woke up like one too if I tried to wake you."

"Ah, but if I remember, you enjoyed those rough moments. And it always turned into a kiss at the end."

"Yes, all the way till Gerdur called us for breakfast an hour later." the two laughed, "Oh, Tarthas. The stars are beautiful tonight and the lady and the apprentice are out. Our signs, I think it is fate we met this eve." she leaned in and kissed him. Tarthas pushed away, "I am in love with someone else, Dorthe, we are no more." Dorthe giggled.

"Oh, Tarthas you were always so high and noble, come on, just a little fun under the moonlight." she loosened her corset and bit his ear. She grabbed his hand and moved it forcefully up her thigh, a grin on her face, her cheeks were flushed. "Just one night, I need someone Tarthas. I'm lonely."

"Dorthe, you're drunk, and whatever there was between us is gone." Tarthas stood up and walked away. Dorthe started crying. It wasn't fair on Dorthe what Tarthas had done, but this was not the right time.

 

At noon the next day Tarthas pulled the Dragonborn away from his work and brought him to basement. "I need to contact the Dark Brotherhood,” he said confidently.

The dunmer eyed him curiously. "And why would that be? Not to kill your father no?"

He hesitated, "No, I don't want to kill anyone. I want to contact the listener, Karsa."

"Your business is your own, but to contact the dark brotherhood, the black sacrament is a must. I will help you set up the altar, but you will need to find a dead body. There is a watchtower, west of here, where lives a young vampire, I was going to set off to slay it today, but if you are willing to then go ahead, I will bring it to town for you. Just leave it at the foot of the tower."

Keri was looking out of the window with the tremendous view in the sitting room, she still hadn’t said anything to Tarthas or anyone else and Tarthas decided to leave her be.

 

The tower was fairly open, his mother had said that when she first came to Falkreath that this was the tower where she had seen her first necromancer and she had actually killed it. Now a Vampire more of the undead, haunted the tower. He climbed the steps cautiously and at the top floor of the tower was a pale robed figure reading a book. “It must be here somewhere, this page… no! It’s not! Molag damn you!” It slammed alembics to the walls in frustration and slammed the book shut, it stood up muttering and cursing under its breath, as it turned around and gleamed at Tarthas with its glowing yellow eyes and grinned a toothy grin. “Seems like a fly has stumbled across a web and now the spider shall drink.”

Tarthas didn’t hesitate in the slightest, as the vampire charged, in one swift movement, he unsheathed and decapitated the vampire. Making short work of it. He carried the body down the steps and did as Zaknolu asked.

 

The same dream haunted Tarthas again. When he woke up the dragonborn was watching him, he was only visible because of the gleam of the moon reflecting off his armour. He beckoned Tarthas to follow him, they went down the steps to the basement and the body lay in a pentagram with a dagger beside it and red candles and nightshade petals surrounding it.

“The words are ‘ _Sweet mother, sweet mother. Send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear._ ’ Repeat them continuously while stabbing the body and soon the Night Mother will hear your wishes and tell the Listener to send out a contract. They are always there within a day. Only do this at night. And so Tarthas kneeled down and stabbed the body, chanting that verse. As Zaknolu had predicted nothing had happened by dawn. The next night he was at it again, chanting and stabbing. A red leather boot stepped in his field of vision, he looked up to see a hooded man in an expensive looking red leather plated vest, and a black hood; yellow eyes glowed from the hood.

“The night mother heard your summons.”

 

{+}{+}{+}{+}{+}

**Author's Note:**

> I've already worked on this for a year now and is near completion, I'll be uploading the chapters per day and the last two I still need to write will be posted when I have written them. It starts off 16 years after the events in the game The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.


End file.
